* * * *

 

Garth Nix was born in 1963 in Melbourne, Australia. A full-time writer since 2001, he has previously worked as a literary agent, marketing consultant, book editor, book publicist, book sales representative, bookseller, and as a part-time soldier in the Australian Army Reserve. Garth’s novels include the award-winning fantasies Sabriel, Lirael and Abhorsen and the YA SF novel Shade’s Children. His fantasy books for children include The Ragwitch; the six books of The Seventh Tower sequence; and the seven books of The Keys to the Kingdom series. His books have appeared on the bestseller lists of The New York Times, Publishers Weekly, The Guardian, The Sunday Times and The Australian. His work has been translated into 38 languages. He lives in a Sydney beach suburb with his wife and two children.

 

* * * *

 

 

To Hold the Bridge:

An Old Kingdom Story

 

Garth Nix

 

 

Morghan stood under the arch of the aqueduct and watched the main gate of the Bridge Company’s legation, across the way. The tall, twin leaves of the gate were open, so he could see into the courtyard, and the front of the grand house beyond. There was great bustle and activity going on, with nine long wagons being loaded, and a tenth having a new iron-bound wheel shipped. People were dashing about in all directions, panting as they wheeled laden wheelbarrows, singing as they rolled barrels, and arguing over the order in which to load all manner of boxes, bales, sacks, chests, hides, tents and even a very large and over-stuffed chair of mahogany and scarlet cloth that was being carefully strapped atop one of the wagons and covered with a purpose-made canvas hood.

 

The name of the company was carved into the stone above the gate: ‘The Worshipful Company of the Greenwash & Field Market Bridge’. That same name was written on the outside of the old and many-times folded paper that Morghan held in his hand. The paper, like the company, was much older than the young man. He had seen only twenty years, but the paper was a share certificate in an enterprise that had been founded in his great-grandfather’s time, some eighty-seven years ago.

 

The Bridge Company, as it was universally called, there being no other of equal significance, had been formed to do exactly as its full name suggested: to build a bridge, specifically one that would cross the Greenwash, that wide and treacherous river that marked the Old Kingdom’s northern border. The bridge would eventually facilitate travel to the Field Market, a trading fair that by long-held custom took place at the turn of each season on a designated square mile of steppe some sixty leagues north of the river. There, merchants from the Old Kingdom would meet with traders from the nomadic tribes of both the closer steppe and the wild lands beyond the Rift, which lay still farther to the north and west.

 

Despite the eighty-seven years, the bridge was still incomplete. During that time the company had constructed a heavy, cable-drawn ferry; a small castle on the northern bank; a fortified bastion in the middle of the river, and the piers, cutwaters and other foundation work of the actual bridge. Only the previous summer a narrow planked way had been laid down for the company’s workers and staff to cross on foot, but the full paved decking for the heavy wagons of the merchants was still at least a year or two away. Consequently, the only way to safely carry loads of trade goods across the river was by the ferry. The ferry, of course, was also a monopoly of the Company, as per the licence it had obtained from the Queen at its founding.

 

The ferry, and the control it gave over the northern trade, was the foundation of the company’s wealth, nearly all of which was reinvested in the bridge which would one day enormously expand the northern trade and repay the investment a hundred-fold. It was this future that made the old, dirty and many-times folded share certificate Morghan held in his hand so valuable.

 

At least, he had often been told it was very valuable, and he hoped that this was true, since it was the sole item of worth that his recently dead, feckless and generally disastrous parents had left him. The only doubt about its value was that they had left the share certificate to him, rather than selling it themselves, as they had sold all other items of worth that had been handed down from his grandmother’s estate.

 

There was only one way to find out. The grim and cheerless notary who had wound up his parents’ estate had told him the share could not be freely sold or transferred without first being offered back to the company, in person, at Bridge House in Navis. Of more interest to Morghan, the notary had also informed him that the share made him eligible to join the company as a cadet, who one day might even rise to the exalted position of Bridgemaster. Then, true to his miserable nature, the clerk had added that very few cadets were taken on, and those only after most rigorous testing which none but the best-educated youngster might hope to pass. The implication was clear that he did not think Morghan would have much of a chance.

 

But it was a chance, no matter how slim. So here Morghan was in Navis, after a rough and literally sickening three-day sea voyage from Belisaere, a passage that had cost him the single gold noble he possessed. It had been the gift of one of his mother’s lovers when he was fourteen, not freely given but offered to buy his silence. The weight of the unfamiliar gold coin in his hand had so shocked him that the man was gone before he could give it back, or tell him that he had no need to bribe him. He had learned young not to speak of anything his parents did, whether singly or together.

 

One of the gate guards was looking at him, Morghan noted, and not in a friendly way. He tried to smile inoffensively, but he knew it just made him look even more suspicious. The guard rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and swaggered across the road. After a moment’s hesitation, Morghan stepped out from the shadow under the aqueduct and went to meet him. He kept his own hand well clear of the sword at his side. It was only a practice weapon anyway, blunt and dull, not much more than a metal club. That was why Emaun had let him take it from the Academy armoury; it had already been written off for replacement in the new term.

 

‘What are you up to?’ demanded the guard. His eyes flickered up and down Morghan, taking in the cheap sword but also the Charter Mark, clear on his forehead. The guard had the mark too, though this didn’t necessarily mean he was schooled in Charter Magic as Morghan was — at least to some degree. Not that he could do any magic, even if the guard decided he was some sort of threat and attacked him. There were probably a dozen or more proper Charter Mages within earshot, and many more around the town. They would note any sudden display of magic and come to investigate. A penniless trespasser would not be accorded much consideration, he was sure, and misuse of magic — Charter or Free — was a serious offence everywhere in the Old Kingdom.

 

‘I ... I want to see the Bridgemaster,’ said Morghan. He held out his share certificate, so the guard could see the seal, the crazed wax roundel bearing the symbol of the half-made bridge arching over the wild river.

 

‘Bridgemistress, you mean, till tomorrow,’ said the guard, but his hand left his sword-hilt. ‘What’s your name?’

 

‘Morghan.’

 

‘In from the ship this morning? From Belisaere?’

 

Morghan shrugged. ‘Most recently.’

 

‘And what’s your business with the Bridgemistress?’

 

‘I’m a shareholder,’ said Morghan. He lifted the certificate again.

 

The guard glanced at the paper, and then at Morghan. He didn’t have to say anything for Morghan to know that he was looking at the young man’s frayed doublet that showed no blazon of house or service. His shirt had too few laces, and his sleeves were of very different colours, and not in a fashionable way. Even his boots, once of very high quality, did not quite match, the left boot being noticeably longer and more pointed in the toe. Both had been his father’s, but not at the same time.

 

‘You’d better see her, then,’ said the guard amiably, which was not the reaction Morghan had been expecting.

 

‘T-thank you,’ he stammered. ‘I ...’

 

He waved his hand, unable to say that he’d been expecting to be kicked to the roadside.

 

‘Don’t thank me yet,’ said the guard. ‘If you have real business here, that’s one thing. If you don’t, you’ll get worse from the Bridgemistress than you’d ever get from me. Go on in, across the court, up the stairs.’

 

Morghan nodded and walked on, past the other three guards at the gate, into the courtyard. He wove his way through all the activity, ducking aside or stepping back as required, trying to keep out of the way. It was difficult, for there were at least a hundred people hard at work. As he weaved his way through and heard snatches of conversation, Morghan caught on that the entire caravan was leaving soon, that he had arrived just in time to catch the seasonal changing of the work crew on the bridge. This was the winter expedition, near to setting off, and when it arrived the autumn crew would return to Navis and refit for the spring.

 

There was as much bustle inside the house as out. Morghan walked gingerly through the open front door into a high-vaulted atrium dominated by a broad stair. The room, though very large, was entirely full of clerks, papers, maps and plans. A long table stretched some forty feet from the rear wall, and was heaped with stacks of ledgers, books, map cases and rolled parchments tied with many different-coloured ribbons.

 

There were several people sitting on the steps, with their papers, books, inkwells and quills piled around them so widely that Morghan had to tread most carefully.

 

At the top landing, another guard waited patiently for Morghan to step over an abacus that was precariously perched next to a clerk stretched out asleep on the second-last stair.

 

Though she was at least six inches shorter than him, wore only a linen shirt and breeches rather than a mail hauberk like the gate guards, and had a long dagger at her side instead of a sword, Morghan knew that he would not last a second if he was foolish enough to try to fight this woman. The dark skin of her hands and wiry forearms was covered in small white scars, testament to a score or more years of fighting, but more telling than that was the look in her bright blue eyes. They were fierce, the gaze of a well-fed hawk that has a pigeon carelessly held, and though it can’t be bothered right now, could disembowel that prey in an instant. She also bore a Charter Mark on her forehead, and Morghan instinctively knew that she would be a Charter Mage. A real, trained Mage, not someone like him who had only a smattering of knowledge and power.

 

‘Pause there, young master,’ she said, and held up one hand.

 

Morghan stopped below the topmost step, so that their eyes were almost level. The woman pointed two fingers towards the Charter Mark on his forehead, and waited.

 

Morghan nodded and raised his hand to touch the woman’s own Mark at the same time she laid her fingers on his brow. He felt the familiar, warm flash pass through his hand, and the swarm of Charter symbols came close behind, a great endless sea of marks rising up to him as he fell into it and was connected with the entirety of the world ... and then they were gone as he let his hand fall and the woman stepped back to allow him up the final step, both their connections to the Charter having proven true, neither one corrupted or faked.

 

‘It pays to be cautious,’ she said. ‘Though it is some forty years since Bridgemaster Jark was assassinated by a Free Magic construct.’

 

‘Really?’ asked Morghan. He wanted to ask why anyone would want to assassinate a Bridgemaster, but it didn’t seem like the moment.

 

‘Really,’ said the woman drily. ‘What is your name and your business here?’

 

‘I am Morghan, and ... uh ... I wish to see the Bridgemistress.’

 

‘So you are,’ said the woman impatiently. ‘I am Amiel, Winter Bridgemistress of the Greenwash Bridge Company.’

 

‘Oh,’ said Morghan. He looked down at the share certificate, unfolded it and proffered it to Amiel. ‘I ... I ... uh ... inherited a share in the company from my parents ...’

 

Amiel took the paper, flicked it fully open, and glanced across the elegantly printed lines, the handwritten number and the gold-flecked seal. Then she leaned forward and prodded the sleeping clerk on the top step. ‘Famagus! Wake up!’

 

The clerk, an elderly man, grunted and slowly sat up.

 

‘I told you everything has been done, to the last annotation,’ he complained. ‘A nap is the least I deserve!’

 

‘I need you to look up a share,’ said Amiel. ‘Number Four Hundred and Twenty-One, in the name of Sabela of Nerrym Cross.’

 

‘My grandmother—’ said Morghan.

 

‘Yes, yes,’ Famagus interrupted. He groaned again as he stood up, and tottered down several steps to pick up a very large and thick ledger that was bound in mottled hide, reinforced with bronze studs and corner-guards. He opened this expertly at almost the right place, turned two pages, and ran his index finger along the lines recorded there.

 

‘Share Four Hundred and Twenty-One, dividends anticipated for the next seven years, the maximum permitted, paid to one Hirghan, son of Sabela—’

 

‘My father—’

 

‘Care of the Three Coins, an inn in Belisaere,’ concluded Famagus. He shut the ledger with a snap, put it down and yawned widely.

 

‘This share is essentially worthless,’ said Amiel. ‘Your father borrowed from the company against it, and it cannot be redeemed or sold until that sum is repaid.’

 

Morghan’s hand shook as he took the paper back. He sucked in an urgent breath, and just managed to stutter out what he had come to say.

 

‘I-I don’t want money ... I want to join the company.’

 

Amiel looked him up and down. Though her gaze was neutral, neither scornful nor encouraging, Morghan blinked uneasily, knowing that what she saw was not promising. He was tall and thin and did not look strong, though in fact he had the same wiry strength and constitution that had allowed his father to take far longer to drink himself to death than should otherwise have been the case. His dark eyes came from his mother, though not her beauty, and he had nothing of the selfishness and cruel disregard for others that had been the strongest characteristic of both his parents.

 

‘You want to enrol as a cadet in the company?’ asked Amiel. ‘The indenture is five years, and there’s no pay in that time. Board, lodging and equipment, that’s all.’

 

‘Yes,’ said Morghan. It was precisely the certainty of food and a roof over his head that he sought. ‘I know.’

 

The Bridgemistress looked at him with those fierce blue eyes. Morghan met her gaze, though he found it very difficult. Somehow he knew that if he looked away, whatever slim chance he had would be gone.

 

‘Very well,’ said Amiel slowly. ‘We’d best see if you are suitable. It is no small thing to be a cadet of the company. Come.’

 

She led the way across the landing into a roomy chamber that had tall windows overlooking the front courtyard. There was a desk against one wall, with several neatly organised stacks of paper arranged on its surface, lined up behind an ink-stained green blotter that had a half-written letter secured upon it by a bronze paperweight in the shape of a nine-arched bridge. A bookshelf occupied the opposite wall, the top shelf taken by a case of swords and the lower shelves occupied by at least a hundred volumes of various sizes and bindings.

 

‘Do you have any knowledge of the art mathematica?’ asked Amiel. She ushered Morghan into the room, and went to the bookshelf to take down a small volume.

 

‘Yes, milady,’ answered Morghan. ‘I have studied at the Academy of Magister Emaun in Belisaere for the past Six years.’

 

‘You have a letter attesting to your studies with the Magister?’ asked Amiel.

 

Morghan wet his lips.

 

‘N-no, milady. I was not a paying pupil. I-I worked in the kitchens and yard for the Magister, from dawn to noon, and attended lessons thereafter.’

 

He did not mention that the Magister’s lessons had been erratic and depended much on his whim. Morghan had learned more by himself than he had ever been taught, but at least working for the Academy had gained him access to the Magister’s library. He had worked more regularly and longer hours at the Three Coins, where his parents were sometimes guests and always debtors. He knew stables and cellar better than any school room. He had also learned more at the inn than from the academy. Hrymkir the innkeeper was an educated and well-travelled man, and, as a former guardsman, both an experienced fighter and a minor Charter Mage. He had passed much of his knowledge on to Morghan, in return for his work as stablehand, potboy and occasional cook. The lessons were all the pay Morghan ever saw, though his labour supposedly helped to reduce his parents’ debt.

 

‘Then we shall see what you have learned,’ said Amiel. She flicked through the pages of the book and placed it open on the desk, next to a writing case and a sheaf of paper off-cuts, intended for informal notes or jottings. ‘Prepare your paper, cut a new pen, and answer the mathematical problems set out on these two pages. You may have until the noon bell to finish.’

 

Morghan glanced out the casement window at the sun, which was already rather high. Noon could not be far off. He took off his sword-belt and leaned the weapon against the desk, hilt ready to hand, before he sat down on the polished, high-backed chair and leant over the desk to focus on the open book. His hand shook as he drew the volume closer. But the shaking eased as Morghan read, and he found that he readily understood the problems. They were not particularly difficult, but there were eleven questions, addressing various matters of practical geometry, calculation and mathematical logic, though all in practical settings, concerned with the wages of artisans and labourers, the cost and quantity of goods, the time required for works and so on. All the questions required a lengthy series of workings to arrive at the correct solution or solutions.

 

Morghan was halfway through question six when the great bell in the tower above the town’s citadel boomed out, its deep voice sounding to him like the roar of one of the disgruntled customers at the Three Coins upon discovering their ale had been watered beyond even their low expectations.

 

The young man set his pen down and dropped a pinch of sand on his current paper. Four other sheets lay to the side, covered in his careful script. Morghan was fairly confident he had answered the questions correctly, but he hadn’t finished, and his stomach knotted as he waited for Amiel to come in and dismiss his pathetic effort.

 

The Bridgemistress strode in before the echo of the bell had faded, and without speaking, picked up the papers and looked through them. As she finished each sheet, she let it fall back on to the desk. Morghan sat uncomfortably, watching her.

 

Amiel dropped the last page and looked down at Morghan.

 

‘I-I didn’t finish ...’ stammered Morghan.

 

‘You’ve done well,’ said Amiel. ‘If you had done more, or shown less of your working, I would have suspected you of reading the explicatory chapters at the back. Now, your mark is true. I presume you also studied Charter Magic with Magister Emaun?’

 

‘A little, milady,’ said Morghan. ‘It ... it is not the fashion in Belisaere these last few years—’

 

‘Fashion?’ snorted Amiel. ‘By the Charter! If some of those court popinjays ever left the peninsula they’d ... well, you say you did some study?’

 

‘Yes, milady, but not much at the Academy. The innkeeper at the Coins, where we lived, he was a retired guardsman. He taught me a lot of things, and my father ... my father did give me a book once, a primer of a thousand useful marks.’

 

‘Do you still have it?’ asked Amiel.

 

Morghan shook his head. ‘He took it back, to sell it.’

 

‘How many Charter marks do you remember?’

 

Morghan blinked in surprise.

 

‘All of them. I had the book for almost a year.’

 

‘Then you had best show me,’ said Amiel. ‘Not here. We will go into the inner court, and I will also have Serjeant Ishring test your skill with weapons.’

 

Morghan nodded, and made a curious movement with his left arm, raising and lowering it with a rotation outwards. Amiel noticed it, but did not comment. Instead she turned away to lead the young man through the house, out on to a squat tower at the back where two sentries watched. Their crossbows lay ready in the embrasures and each had a dozen quarrels neatly stood up against the wall, ready to hand.

 

‘All’s well, Bridgemistress,’ reported the closer guard as Amiel and Morghan stepped out.

 

‘Good,’ said Amiel. She looked over the crenellated wall, and Morghan did likewise. The inner court was a large grassed area, the grass worn to dirt in patches, behind the house proper but within the perimeter wall. There were sentries on the outer wall as well, walking the ramparts, and more atop a taller square tower in the north-east corner.

 

Morghan wondered why the sentries were necessary. After all, the Bridge House was well within the town’s own walls, which were in good repair and patrolled; and it was also well protected against the Dead or Free Magic creatures, being inside both the main aqueduct ring and a smaller one that encircled the Bridge House and several of its neighbours, which were also the headquarters of other major commercial operations.

 

‘We are a rich company,’ said Amiel, answering his unspoken question as they descended the steps to the courtyard, pausing at the bottom for the iron-studded door to be unlocked. ‘Wealth attracts trouble, of every stripe, and lack of the same can make even the most steadfast stray. We must always be on guard.’

 

Morghan nodded. The courtyard was empty save for one very broad-shouldered man with a short neck. Unlike the other guards, who wore tan surcoats over mail, he had on a knee-length coat of gethre plates that rippled as he moved. He was chopping at a pell — a target post — with a pole-axe, sending chips flying from the tough wood on both sides as he switched his angle of attack. He made it look effortless.

 

‘That’s Ishring, my Serjeant-at-Arms,’ said Amiel. ‘Come on.’

 

Morghan followed, nervously touching the hilt of his practice sword. He was reasonably competent with swords and short blades, but he’d never wielded a pole-axe. He rotated his left arm again, trying to loosen the elbow as much as he could. A pole-axe needed the full strength and flexibility of two good arms.

 

As they stepped out into the courtyard, Ishring stabbed the pell at eye-height with the spear point of the pole-axe, then stepped back to the guard position and swivelled on his left foot to face Amiel and Morghan, though as far as Morghan could tell no one had warned him of their approach and he doubted their footsteps could have been heard over the sound of the chopping and striking at the pell.

 

‘Bridgemistress!’ bellowed Ishring, slapping the shaft of his pole-arm in salute.

 

‘Serjeant,’ acknowledged Amiel. ‘This is Morghan, a potential cadet to be put to the test. Arms first, I think, and then I shall assay his knowledge of the Charter.’

 

‘You know how to use that sword, Morghan?’ asked Ishring.

 

‘Ah ... yes —’ began Morghan. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Amiel step smartly away from him, and a more complete answer faltered and remained unspoken.

 

‘Use it then!’ bellowed Ishring, and suddenly swung the pole-axe towards Morghan’s head, though not directly at it. Morghan jumped back and drew his sword, ducked under another swing and scrabbled sideways.

 

Ishring backed away, pole-axe at guard once more. Morghan eyed him warily, keeping his sword high.

 

‘How do you deal with an opponent who has a longer weapon or greater reach?’ asked Ishring.

 

Morghan gulped, and kept watching the serjeant’s eyes.

 

‘Get in close,’ he said.

 

‘What are you waiting for then?’ taunted Ishring. He began to circle around the young man. Morghan circled the other way, so as not to be manoeuvred into facing the sun, and when Ishring circled back, he feinted a lunge at the serjeant’s knee, which he hoped would provoke a counter and provide an opening for a proper attack. But Ishring merely stepped back just far enough to avoid this strategy, and kept his pole-axe ready.

 

‘Nasty thing, a pole-axe,’ said Ishring conversationally, as they circled around each other. ‘We need them to crack open the nomad spirit-walkers, but they’ll do fearful damage to unarmoured flesh and bone, shockin —’

 

He swung in mid-word, without any tell-tale tensing of muscle or flicker of eye. Morghan jumped back, and stepped back again as the axe blade came whistling in from the other side, then before it could come again, he leapt forward with his sword shortened to stab, and then he was lying dazed on the ground, uncertain what had actually happened other than the blunt haft of the pole-axe beating his blade aside and tapping him behind the knee.

 

Instinct made him roll away, a good response, as the spear-point of Ishring’s pole-axe stabbed the ground where he’d been, though it was more punctuation than an actual attack. Morghan knew it would already have been in his throat in a real combat.

 

‘Good enough,’ boomed Ishring. He stepped well back. ‘Sheathe your blade.’

 

Morghan returned his sword to its scabbard with a shaking hand. He could feel blood trickling down his chin. He wiped it away, the slight stain of bright red confirming that it was only a graze from his fall.

 

‘You move quite well,’ said Ishring. ‘But you hold your left arm strangely. You have injured your elbow?”

 

Morghan looked down. He had hoped they would not notice, at least not immediately, but he should have known that an armsmaster like Ishring would spot it straight away.

 

‘My elbow was broken,’ he said. ‘A long time ago, and not set properly.’

 

‘Hold out your arm,’ commanded Ishring. ‘Grip my hand. Hard as you can.’

 

Morghan did as he was told. He could not completely straighten his left arm, but he had worked very hard to make sure that his left hand was as strong or stronger than his right.

 

Ishring probed around his elbow joint, pushing with his fingers. It hurt, but no more than it would have hurt his other elbow.

 

‘Old break, grown wrong,’ confirmed Ishring to Amiel. She came over and prodded as well, while Morghan stood there, scarlet-faced.

 

‘Why was it not mended?’ asked Amiel. ‘A simple spell, at the time, and it would have re-knit.’

 

‘It was an accident,’ mumbled Morghan. ‘My mother was ... was ill, and didn’t mean to hit me. My father wasn’t home. No one tended to it for days, and then ... there was no money ...’

 

‘How old were you?’ asked Amiel.

 

‘Nine or ten,’ said Morghan. He remembered every detail of what had happened, but not exactly when it was. His mother had been taking some concoction that addled her wits, and had lashed out at him with a curtain-rod, thinking he was someone — or something — else, and had then lapsed into a drugged coma for three days. She had been lucky to survive, and he had been fortunate not to lose his arm completely by the time his father returned and belatedly sought help. They had been living in a grace and favour house of his grandmother’s then, on the sea cliffs near Orchyre, a beautiful but lonely spot with no near neighbours.

 

‘It could perhaps be made new, but it is far beyond my skill,’ said Amiel. ‘It really should have been dealt with at the time. The Infirmarian at the glacier might be able to do something

 

Morghan nodded glumly. He knew that only a most powerful and experienced Charter Mage, one who was also a surgeon, might be able to mend his elbow. The Infirmarian of the Clayr, off in their remote glacier home, would be one such possibility. But the Clayr demanded payment for all their services, be it foretelling, research in their famed library, or anything else.

 

He had once thought to petition the King in Belisaere to be healed. There was a tradition that the ruler of the Old Kingdom would consider such petitions on certain feast days, but Morghan had found that in modern times, putting the petition into the hands of the right people who would convey it to the King cost far more money than he had ever had. Besides, the King, though a powerful Charter Mage, was not a surgeon.

 

With his weak elbow known, he supposed that Amiel would now decide he was unfit to join the Bridge Company, and he would have to come up with some other plan. The only problem was that he couldn’t think of anything else. Joining the company had seemed the one possibility that might lead to decent work and regular meals. If he failed here then he supposed he could try to gain employment in an inn or tavern. He knew the work, after all. But such relatively unskilled jobs always had many takers, and he had seen enough beggars in the walk from the docks to know that there were few prospects in Navis, and he had no money for the return journey to Belisaere. It would be a long and hungry walk back to the capital, if he had to make it — though with winter coming, he would probably die of cold before he had the chance to starve.

 

Morghan stood and tried to be stoic, preparing himself for the bad news. Perhaps he could begin his begging here, and ask for a loaf and cheese, to see him on his way. They were certainly loading provisions enough in the front courtyard.

 

‘Try the pole-axe,’ said Ishring unexpectedly. Amiel said nothing.

 

‘Uh, on the pell?’ asked Morghan. He took the pole-axe, forehead knitting as he felt its weight. It was much heavier at the head than the axe he had used to split wood at the Three Coins, but the shaft was also longer and had a counter-weighted spike, so its balance was far superior.

 

‘On the pell,’ confirmed Ishring. ‘Three strokes to the left, three strokes to the right, and finish by jamming the spear into the middle, hard as you can.’

 

‘Hard enough to stay there?’ asked Morghan doubtfully. He had done little spear work, but the old guard who had taught him had been insistent that you thrust a spear in only as far as you could pull it out, to avoid disarming yourself in the middle of a battle.

 

‘Aye, for this test,’ said Ishring. ‘But it is good you asked the question.’

 

Morghan took a deep breath, stepped forward, and swung, rapidly delivering three hefty chops to the left side of the pell. As he had expected, they were not quite as powerful as they would be if he could straighten his left arm, but a satisfying number of wood chips flew from the timber.

 

Reversing the momentum of the pole-axe was also tricky, but Morghan managed it, rolling his wrists and pivoting on his foot to address the right side of the pell. But his first swing was weak, and at a bad angle, so that the axe-blade was almost pinched, caught in the tightly-grained wood. Desperately, he wrenched it free, though it put him off-balance. He almost panicked and swung back immediately, but all the lessons in the inn courtyard had their effect. He almost heard Hrymkir bellowing at him to calm down, that balance was more important than sheer speed.

 

Morghan regained his focus, delivered two more forceful strikes, then rammed the spear-point of the pole-axe as hard as he could at the very middle of the pell. The impact jarred his hands and he felt a savage jab of pain in his bad elbow, but he held on long enough to make sure the weapon was firmly embedded before he let it go, the shaft quivering as it slowly leaned toward the ground. But the spear-point did not come out.

 

‘Good,’ said Ishring. ‘Now draw your sword with your left hand. Take guard.’

 

Morghan grimaced with the pain, but he drew his sword. His elbow felt like it was burning up inside, but it hadn’t locked up. He could fight left-handed, after a fashion, but Ishring only needed a few passes to disarm him.

 

‘The elbow is a weak point,’ pronounced the serjeant-at-arms while Morghan bent to pick up his blade. ‘If we used longbows I would say we could not take him. But we don’t, and a crossbow should present no difficulty. He can wield a sword well enough and can manage a pole-axe. He can be trained to be considerably better with both. Is he a useful Charter Mage?’

 

‘That we shall presently see,’ said Amiel. ‘Come, Morghan.’

 

‘Yes, milady,’ Morghan replied hurriedly. He nodded thankfully at Ishring, who inclined his head a fraction in return. The Serjeant had a hard, scarred face, but his eyes showed considered thought, rather than anything else, and Morghan felt none of the fear that other such faces had provoked in him, back at the Three Coins. Eyes showed true intent, and he had learned young to make himself scarce when he saw the glint of need, anger or just plain madness in a gaze, usually intensified by too much drink or one of the more vicious substances you could buy in the alleys behind the inn.

 

Amiel took him to the very centre of the courtyard, as far from the wall and the house as possible. There was a large flat paving stone under the dust there. It was some ten feet square and had a bronze grille set in the middle, above a sump or drain to the town sewer.

 

‘Stand next to the grille,’ instructed Amiel. She walked away from him, off the paving stone. ‘Now, I am going to ask you to cast some basic Charter spells. If you do not know the spell, do not attempt it! Simply tell me that you do not know. Similarly, if you begin a spell and lose your way or the marks begin to overwhelm you, stop at once. I do not wish you to kill yourself, or me, for that matter, by attempting magic beyond your knowledge or skill.’

 

‘I understand,’ said Morghan. This was also a basic principle that had been drummed into him by Hrymkir, and he had a dim memory of the consequences of over-reaching with Charter Magic. His grandmother had tried to be-spell his father to make him stop drinking and become responsible, but it had completely failed. She had been struck blind and dumb as a result, and had died soon after. Morghan had been six, but he still remembered her withered hand clutching at him as she tried to tell him something, her voice no more meaningful than the cawing of a crow.

 

Morghan was very careful with Charter Magic.

 

‘Make a small flame, as if to light a candle,’ called out Amiel. She had retreated another dozen feet. Morghan briefly wondered just how catastrophically other potential candidates had fared with such a simple spell, but forced himself not to dwell on that. Instead he took a deep breath, and reached out for the Charter, immersing himself in the endless flow of marks, visualising the two he needed, reaching for them as they swam out of the rush of symbols. He caught them and let them run through him, coursing with his bloodstream to the end of his index finger. He held that finger up, and the marks joined and became what they described, a small yellow flame that did not burn his skin, though if he touched it to wick or paper it would set them ablaze.

 

‘Good,’ said Amiel. ‘Dismiss it.’

 

Morghan stopped concentrating on the two marks. They retreated back into the great body of the Charter, and the spell instantly faded. A wave of tiredness passed through Morghan as the marks fled, a kind of weary farewell. It must have shown in his face or perhaps he shivered, for Amiel immediately asked if he was able to continue.

 

‘Yes,’ answered Morghan, as strongly as he could. He felt that his voice hardly reached Amiel, but she nodded.

 

‘Call forth water from the air, to cup in your hands,’ she instructed.

 

Morghan knew this one well. It was a simple spell, but could save a traveller’s life. It could be difficult in a very dry place, but the air was moist in Navis.

 

Once again he reached into the Charter, summoning the marks he needed. This time, when he connected with them, he sketched them in the air with his fingers, completing the tracing by cupping his hands under the glowing signs that hung in the air before him. They turned to sweet water, which trickled through his fingers. Morghan found himself thirsty, and drank

 

As before, the conjuration made him tired, but the drink helped a little. He wiped his face with wet fingers, took a breath and looked to Amiel, signalling his acceptance for the next challenge.

 

‘Call a bird to your hand, from the sky,’ said Amiel.

 

Morghan hesitated. He knew some of the sequences of marks that identified particular birds, and he knew some marks that could be used together to call to someone, to let them know that the caster wanted to see them. But he did not know any specific spells for calling birds.

 

‘Uh, I don’t ... I don’t know how to do that, milady,’ he said. Better to confess it, he thought, than to accidentally summon a thousand birds, or perhaps something far more dangerous. There were Free Magic creatures that could fly, and were not deterred by running water. Sometimes such creatures slept beneath cities, or had been imprisoned in bottles or jars, and a slipshod Charter spell could help them escape their confinement.

 

‘You are wise,’ said Amiel. ‘Do you know the spell of the silver blades?’

 

‘Yes,’ answered Morghan. This was a very old, much-used spell for combat. He could feel the three marks already, rising up from the swirl of the Charter, pressing to come into his mind and mouth.

 

‘Cast against the pell,’ said Amiel.

 

Morghan raised his hand and pointed at the wooden post. It was already almost hacked in half by the attentions of Ishring and Morghan’s own efforts. The serjeant had left it now, and the space was clear around it.

 

‘Anet! Calew! Ferhan!’ roared Morghan, the use-names of the marks flying from his mouth, leaving the burn of power against his lips. The marks became silver blades as they flashed across the gap between him and the pell, and then the timber exploded as they struck, the top of the post bouncing across the yard in a cloud of dust and wood chips.

 

‘That will do,’ said Amiel.

 

Morghan blinked, wiped his sweating forehead and tried to suck in air without making it too obvious that he was absolutely shattered. His legs felt weak and barely able to support his weight and he wished there was something he could unobtrusively lean against.

 

‘You have done well,’ said Amiel. She surprised Morghan by taking his arm and helping him walk back towards the house. He tried to not lean on her, but found he was too exhausted. In any case, she seemed to have no difficulty holding him up.

 

‘I have tested many a cadet who has fainted after their first spellcasting,’ said Amiel as they slowly ascended the stairs in the rear tower. ‘Few manage three spells in so short a time with no allowance for rest, and I think on only two occasions has a cadet candidate managed four.’

 

‘Will you ... will I ... may I join the company?’ croaked Morghan as they came back out on the main landing, above the grand stair. It was much as they had left it. Famagus had not returned to sleep on the step, but instead was sitting up and writing in yet another large, metal-bound ledger.

 

‘Yes,’ said Amiel. She sat him down on the top step, next to Famagus. ‘You are accepted as a cadet of The Worshipful Company of the Greenwash & Field Market Bridge.’

 

‘Sign here,’ said Famagus, balancing the open ledger on Morghan’s knees.

 

Everything was already written out, in neat lines of script, indenturing Morghan son of Hirghan and Jorella, to the Company for the next five years in the position of cadet, one share of the company to be put in trust as a surety for his conduct and application, a further share to be issued should he on the completion of four years be commissioned as a Bridgemaster’s Second.

 

Morghan took the pen, signed with a shaking hand, and passed out.

 

* * * *

 

Though he had been allowed to sleep on the step for an hour or so after he signed his indentures, his awakening marked the beginning of Morghan’s training. Even before he rubbed his eyes, a passing Bridgemaster’s Second whose name he missed thrust a book called ‘Company Orders’ into his hand, with the instruction that he was to read it before he next saw the Bridgemistress, as amongst many other things, it detailed the comprehensive duties of a cadet. He had barely opened this small but thick volume, printed very clearly and precisely on onion-skin paper, before a different Bridgemaster’s Second took his elbow and led him away to another part of the main house, where he met someone he initially thought was called Sutler before he realised that was her title, as she was in charge of a veritable treasure trove of clothing and equipment.

 

Before he could protest, Morghan was stripped to his underclothes by the Sutler’s assistants, one of whom was a woman not much older than he was, and when the Sutler saw the state of disrepair of the undergarments, though they were clean, those came off too.

 

Morghan almost lashed out at his helpers as they stripped him, but just in time he realised that they were not trying to humiliate him, they were just trying to get on with their jobs as quickly as possible and that the Sutler herself was piling up new undergarments and other clothes on the table, ready for Morghan to put on immediately.

 

Newly attired in the livery of the Company, Morghan was loaded up with more new stuff than he had ever had before, the assistants piling things into his outstretched arms as the Sutler wrote them in her ledger. When the pile of five undergarments, three leather tunics, six sleeveless shirts, six pairs of sleeves with laces, one pair breeches short, two pairs breeches long, one heavy greasy wool cloak with enamel Company badge, one light cloak lined with silk, two leather jerkins, four belts, one pair doeskin boots, one pair metal-heeled leather boots, one pair woollen slippers, one broad felt hat, one cap, six pairs assorted neckerchiefs and one sewing wallet reached Morghan’s chin, he was tapped on the elbow by the first Bridgemaster’s Second, back again, and led out of the Sutler’s store to yet another part of the house, this time a long, high-ceilinged room that had to be a wing all on its own. It was lined with trestle beds, forty along one wall and thirty on the other, each of them with two chests at the foot of the bed, a large one and a smaller one with leather straps.

 

Morghan was told this was the barracks, which was usually about half-full as the greater majority of the company’s people lived in private accommodation in the town, and the senior officers had their own chambers above. But when on guard duty, this was home for a week at a time, and for their first year at least, the cadets were required to live in barracks.

 

‘Not that you’ll be here long,’ said the Second, whose name Morghan still didn’t know and didn’t want to ask. ‘You’re joining the Winter Shift, under Bridgemistress Amiel, and you move out tomorrow at dawn.’

 

‘How many Shifts are there?’ asked Morghan. Under the Second’s direction, he chose a bed, even if it was only for one night.

 

‘Four, of course. I’m in Summer, under Bridgemaster Korbin. But I was loaned to Winter, under Amiel, last year. She’s a tough one.’

 

Morghan must have looked worried, because the Second added, ‘She’s just, mind you. Or, not exactly just ... I mean she’s ...ah ... just do what you’re told willingly and you’ll be all right. Now, get your things stowed. Your small chest will go with you, so make sure you have everything you’ll need in it. I’ll be back to take you to the armoury for your weapons and hauberk, the refectory for supper and then the Bridgemistress wants to see you before her evening rounds.’

 

Morghan muttered his thanks, and immediately packed away all the things he had been given, carefully sorting and inspecting them. Everything went into the smaller chest. He had nothing personal to put in the larger one, and he belatedly realised that the Sutler had not returned his former clothes, his ill-fitting mail shirt or his blunt training sword. He supposed they might be sold, and that would be part of the business of the company, or perhaps the Sutler’s personal perquisite. In either case, he didn’t care. They were a reminder of a life that he hoped he had left behind forever.

 

After a final, satisfied look at his well-packed travelling chest, and mindful of the Second’s parting comment about the Bridgemistress wanting to see him, Morghan tried to read as much as he could of ‘Company Orders’ before he was led away again.

 

He managed thirty-six pages before he was hustled out of the barracks to become re-acquainted with Serjeant Ishring in the Armoury: a large, split-level room that opened out into a smaller courtyard of yet another wing of the main house. It held more weapons and armour than Morghan had ever seen in one place before, including the large swordsmith’s that had been near the Three Coins and was supposed to be one of the best in Belisaere.

 

Ishring explained that while he was Serjeant of the Winter Shift, and so would be training Morghan on the road and at the bridge, command of the house had been formally handed over to the Spring Shift just that past hour, and thus it was Serjeant-at-arms Corena who now ran the armoury. So it was she who carefully measured him for a hauberk of ringed mail that would be adjusted and ready for him to pick up after he saw the Bridgemistress that evening, a promise made concrete by the sound of the smiths working at the forge in the courtyard outside the armoury.

 

Morghan was also issued a pole-axe; a sword, a proper long hanger with a rounded point; two daggers, thin and merciless; a knife of more general purpose and rougher make; and the number of a crossbow that would be his to use and care for, but, when not in active use would be stored in the armoury wagon or, when they reached the bridge, in the fort on the northern bank or the mid-river bastion, depending on his assigned station.

 

‘You can ride, I suppose?’ asked Ishring, as he helped Morghan back to the barracks with his gear.

 

‘Yes,’ said Morghan. ‘I ... I worked a lot with horses.’

 

He did not say that this consisted mostly of mucking out the stables, cleaning tack, and wiping down and brushing the mounts of guests at the inn. But he had been taught to ride properly when he was very young and his grandmother was still alive, and though he had not ridden far since, he had plenty of practice taking horses across the city.

 

‘We walk, mostly,’ said Ishring. ‘With the wagons. But there’s always a mounted patrol as well, and cadets and guards alike take their turn.’

 

‘How long does it take to reach the bridge?’ asked Morghan.

 

‘You mean, “how long does it take to reach the bridge, serjeant”,’ said Ishring. ‘You’re a cadet now, not a visitor. Don’t forget.’

 

The serjeant’s tone was formal, but not aggressive.

 

‘Beg pardon, serjeant,’ said Morghan. He felt his back straighten by reflex as he asked again. ‘How long to reach the bridge please, serjeant?’

 

‘Sixteen days, weather permitting,’ said Ishring. ‘Twenty or more if there’s snow. Now, in barracks, your pole-axe goes across behind the bedhead, you see the brackets? You wear sword and knife at all times, and daggers as well when mustered to the guard. When you get your hauberk and gambeson, you will wear them at all times, except when you’re asleep, when they go on the stand here, half-unlaced and ready to put on. When I think you’re used to the weight, you can wear leather and cap when not on duty, but not until I say so. You’ll learn more about your duties and service on the march, from tomorrow. Understand?’

 

‘Yes, serjeant,’ said Morghan. He spoke softly, as he usually did, a habit born of not wanting to draw attention to himself at the inn.

 

‘I can’t hear you!’ roared Ishring. ‘Do you understand me?’

 

‘Yes!’ Morghan roared back, surprising himself.

 

‘Good,’ said Ishring, in conversational tones. ‘Ah, here comes Second Nerrith to show you to supper. Welcome to the company, Cadet Morghan. Good evening, Second Nerrith.’

 

‘Good evening, Master Ishring,’ said Nerrith, who was the first Bridgemaster’s Second who had rushed him hither and yon. She didn’t look much older than him, but had far more self-assurance. ‘Cadet Morghan.’

 

Ishring departed. As he strode away, Morghan relaxed a little, but not too much. He remembered Hrymkir’s stories of life in the Royal Guards, and though he didn’t fully understand the hierarchy of the company, he’d read enough in his new book to understand that the Bridgemaster’s Seconds were junior officers, and could not only give any cadet orders, but also subject them to a long list of punishments for any perceived infraction of courtesy or duties. He had not read about the status of the serjeants-at-arms, but it was clear they were to be obeyed. As for the Bridgemistress herself, she had already attained a status for Morghan as a figure of vast authority, who was not only to be obeyed, but worshipped.

 

‘Have you read the Orders?’ asked Nerrith.

 

‘Ah, some of it,’ said Morghan. Belatedly he added, ‘Bridgemaster’s Second.’

 

‘Just call me Second,’ said Nerrith. ‘The Bridgemistress is milady or Bridgemistress. Cadets call the serjeants ‘serjeant’. The guards you address by name, or ‘guard’ if you absolutely have to. You’ll need to learn everyone’s names as quickly as you can. I’ll get you a copy of the full roster, but you’ll need to try and fix the names in your head as you meet people. Do you have any questions right now? We have a few minutes before the first sitting for supper.’

 

‘Are there many cadets?’ asked Morghan. He was a little anxious about how he might get on, particularly after his experiences at the Academy. Working in the stables was not conducive to good relations with the mainly noble students and their highly inflated views of their own standing and how it might be affected by deigning to even notice, let alone befriend, a stableboy, even if his family had once been important at court.

 

‘You’re it in the Winter Shift,’ said Nerrith. ‘Didn’t you know? Each Bridgemaster only takes on one new cadet each season, and only then if they’re short of Seconds. You were lucky the Bridgemistress only has two Seconds right now and she didn’t care for the cadet candidates we’ve had these past months. I thought she might have to borrow a Second from one of the other Shifts, which is what happened to me last year, but I suppose she always knew you’d turn up.’

 

‘How?’ asked Morghan.

 

Nerrith gave him a look that he supposed was one of kindly scorn.

 

‘She’s a Clayr of course. You don’t see those blue eyes and that dark skin on anyone else do you? And her hair was all gold before, so they say.’

 

‘But the Clayr live in the Glacier,’ said Morghan. ‘They See the future there, in the ice. What’s she doing here, with the company?’

 

‘Maybe she’ll tell you one day,’ said Nerrith, with the air of someone who already knew this secret, though Morghan doubted that she did. But he did believe Amiel was a Clayr, though he had never heard of one that had permanently left the Glacier. He had seen Clayr, from time to time in Belisaere. But they were only visiting, and always travelled in groups, on the business of their strange community.

 

‘Where are the Bridgemistress’s Seconds?’ he asked next.

 

‘Gone on ahead, to check the road and the waystations,’ said Nerrith. ‘They’re all right. Terril, the senior, will probably be a Bridgemistress herself in a few years, and Limmie, I mean Limath, he was a cadet till only last summer, so he’ll remember what it was like and not be too hard on you.’

 

They’re often the worst, thought Morghan pessimistically. Keen to pass on whatever horrible happened to them.

 

His thoughts were interrupted as Nerrith announced it was time for supper. On the way to the refectory, she told Morghan that there were usually two sittings and that it was important to be on good terms with the chief cook and the stewards or else one might be served more gristle than meat, and that at some time, he would spend three months working in the kitchens and the refectory, as part of his training.

 

Morghan did not mention that he already knew this kind of work well, though he quickly discovered that the food in the refectory was better than that of the Three Coins. He had to force himself to eat slowly. If he’d been alone, he would have bolted down everything in sight, and tucked half a dozen of the small brown-crust pies under his shirt for later. But the refectory was crowded, and Nerrith sat next to him and talked and talked, so he ate slowly but steadily, and listened

 

Nerrith told him he would have an unprecedented three meals a day, including breakfast, luncheon and supper. She detailed the travelling rations they would draw, and what the food was like at the bridge, and where he should sit, or more importantly not sit, some tables being reserved by custom if not actual regulation for particular officers of the company. For example, Famagus the chief clerk, who after the four Bridgemasters was the most important officer, had a favourite table and a particular chair. On no account must a cadet ever sit on his chair, for as the keeper of all records he was a very important figure in the lives of both cadets and Seconds. Though he did not leave the headquarters in Navis, Nerrith said it felt like he was always around, because his letters fell upon them like arrows. There were dozens each day, always wanting some count of equipment, a tally of goods or an explanation of work, and replying was always the work of the junior officers.

 

‘I hope you have a good writing hand,’ she added. ‘And you can spell. If a report is untidy or misspelled, Famagus sometimes makes us write it out again, three times.’

 

‘You mean when you were a cadet,’ suggested Morghan.

 

‘You’re in for some disillusionment if you ever make it to Second,’ replied Nerrith. ‘We get paid and all, but no one thinks we’re worth much more than the cadets.’

 

‘Sometimes with good reason,’ said a voice behind them. Nerrith choked on a mouthful as she hastily stood up, and Morghan almost fell backwards over his chair as he followed suit.

 

‘I said I wanted to see Cadet Morghan before my evening rounds, not at the commencement of them,’ said Bridgemistress Amiel. ‘I am not pleased, Second Nerrith. Please let Bridgemaster Korbin know that you have let me down.’

 

‘Yes, milady,’ said Nerrith. She turned on her heel and left.

 

‘I expect my cadets and Seconds to be punctual, within reason,’ said Amiel. ‘It is now a quarter after the hour. Did you not hear the town clock strike, Cadet Morghan?’

 

‘No, milady.’

 

‘Here we take our time from the town clock. At the bridge, horns are blown in the North Fort, the Mid-river Bastion and the Work Camp, on the hour, every hour. Doubtless you will be responsible for such timekeeping at some point. You have been provided with a book of Company Orders?’

 

‘Yes, milady.’

 

‘You will find a section on timekeeping between pages eighty-seven and ninety-one. Do you possess one of these timekeeping eggs the artificers are making in Belisaere?’

 

‘No, milady,’ said Morghan. He was about to add that they called them ‘watches’ now, but decided against it.

 

‘You can tell the hour from the sun? Or the moon?’

 

‘Yes, milady,’ said Morghan. He hesitated again, but this time he did speak. ‘And ... and from the Charter, milady.’

 

Amiel looked surprised.

 

‘Good. That is an old spell, not often known these days, save amongst folk who need careful count of time.’

 

‘My grandmother taught me,’ said Morghan. ‘It is the only spell that I had from her that I can remember. I was six and ... and wondering when I would get my dinner.’

 

It had been one of the last of the regular dinners. His grandmother had attempted to ‘fix’ his father not long after she taught him how to find and recognise the marks that spun in time with the passage of the sun, and waxed and waned in keeping with the hours of light and darkness. She had said it could sometimes be very important to know how long it would be before the sun would rise.

 

‘It is the first small part of weather lore,’ said Amiel. ‘Do you know anything more?’

 

‘No, milady,’ answered Morghan.

 

‘I have some small knowledge of weather lore,’ said Amiel. ‘If time permits from your regular instruction, we may look into it. Speaking of such, as doubtless you already know from your reading of Company Orders, part of the regular duty of cadets and Seconds is to accompany the Bridgemistress on her rounds, whether at house, bridge or camp. As my two Seconds have gone ahead to scout the road, this privilege is solely yours this evening. Follow me.’

 

Morghan learned a lot about the company and the Bridgemistress in the next hour and a half as he followed Amiel all over the house, as she called the whole sprawling array of buildings. Though preparations had been underway for more than two months for the Winter Shift to move to the bridge, and everything had supposedly been done, Amiel checked into everything. On nearly every enquiry she was satisfied with the result. The one occasion where she was not satisfied, and the nature of her dissatisfaction, made Morghan very thoughtful. He had been beaten, shouted at, spat on and worse on numerous occasions by his supposed superiors and customers at the inn, by older students at the Academy, and by his own parents when they were drunk or drugged. He had nursed his wounds alone, and swore that one day he would be richer, and more powerful and important than his tormenters. Their dominance over him was only temporary, a fleeting moment that would be forgotten.

 

Amiel did not swear or use force. On discovering that one of the wagon drivers had not replaced a broken axle with a new one, but had had repairs done instead and presumably pocketed the difference, she merely looked at the axle, then at the driver, and had said, ‘This is the second infraction, Werrie. There is the gate.’

 

Werrie had fallen to his knees and begged and pleaded for another chance. He’d sobbed out a story, made incoherent by his tears, something about debts and family. But Amiel had merely pointed at the gate again, and then when Werrie grovelled at her ankles, she gestured to summon two of the gate guards, who picked him up and dragged him out. Morghan made particular note that they tore the company emblem from the sleeve of Werrie’s coat and unpinned the enamelled badge from his hat.

 

‘Cadet Morghan,’ said Amiel conversationally, as she continued to the next wagon, ‘you have seen a very rare occurrence. This company looks after its people well, but we expect much in return. While you may err out of stupidity, or weariness, or simply make less than ideal choices, if you intentionally put the company’s goods, persons or premises at risk, you will be warned once only. The second time, you will be expelled, your share or shares forfeit and your name published across the Kingdom as an offender against the company. In some very few cases, we take even sterner action, as we may under our original patent from Queen Hellael the Second.’

 

Morghan thought about that later, as he lay in his narrow bed and tried to sleep. There were many people in the barracks, a lot of them still preparing gear, or talking, but it was not this busy noise that kept him awake.

 

It was pure amazement that forestalled sleep. He could not believe how much his life had changed for the better, a wonderment that was accompanied by a deep-seated fear that something would happen to take it all away again.

 

Finally, Morghan did sleep, but he felt like he had only just closed his eyes when he was roused again, by a rough shake on his shoulder.

 

‘Come on, lad! The day won’t wait for you.’

 

* * * *

 

The next few weeks were a golden time for Morghan. He wasn’t necessarily happy, as such, for he did not really know that such a state existed, or how he might reach it. But he was content and busy, a combined state that he was equally unfamiliar with, the result of finally finding a respectable place among a well-ordered community, rather than the confusion of never knowing what the next day would hold, apart from the petty miseries that were his lot at the Three Coins, or the arbitrary actions of his parents.

 

The company’s wagons travelled the Royal Road north, and had right of way over almost everyone, so they rarely had to leave the paved and well-drained highway for the muddy shoulder. They were lucky with the weather too. To begin with the days were cold but fine, and the morning frosts light, not much more than a tonic to wake up a tired cadet.

 

He was tired, for his every waking hour was occupied, mostly following the Bridgemistress everywhere or dashing off at her orders, usually to discover something she already knew but Morghan did not. She also set him passages of Company Orders to memorise, and showed him Charter marks that he had to summon for her the next day, with the promise that in time he would also learn how these marks could be combined with others to become useful spells.

 

Amiel did not sleep very much herself, which made things even more difficult. By the fourth day he was very tired indeed, so tired that he could not even summon the energy to be nervous about the imminent arrival of the Bridgemistress’s two Seconds, who were due to arrive that evening, having already been to the bridge to check the road and discover anything unusual, before doubling back.

 

The two Seconds rode into camp at dusk, the hails of the sentries alerting Morghan before he saw them. He was holding a washing basin and an ewer of warm water for Amiel in her tent, for her to wash the dust from her face and hands. She heard the calls too, and gestured for him to set basin and ewer on their stands.

 

‘Go and meet my Seconds,’ she instructed. ‘Tell them to report when they have taken some repast.’

 

‘Yes, milady.’

 

‘For your instruction, if they have anything urgent to report, they will refuse and come straight to me,’ added Amiel. ‘As you will do, if returning from a similar task.’

 

‘Yes, milady,’ repeated Morghan. He bowed and went outside into the orderly camp, and walked between the rows of tents to the horse lines. The guards there nodded to him.

 

‘Good even, Romashrikil and ... Kwor ... Kworquorakan.’

The guards smiled and nodded again. Morghan walked past them, still unsure if they were playing tricks on him. They had told him their names themselves, but they were like nothing he had ever heard before, and they did not look as if they were from so distant a country as to have such names. He had yet to hear anyone else address them, which in itself suggested it was all some kind of elaborate joke to play on the new cadet.

 

The Seconds were taking off their saddles. Terril was a slim, serious-looking woman easily eight or nine years Morghan’s senior. Limath looked to be much the same age as himself, Morghan reckoned, though he was considerably broader in the shoulders and sported a rather splendid beard as jet black as his hair. He was also much more mud-splattered than Terril, some of it above his belt, though Morghan noticed neither of the horses was particularly dirty, and not at all above the knees.

 

Limath saw him first as he turned around with his saddle and gear over his shoulder.

 

‘Terril!’ he cried. ‘By all that is marvellous! A cadet!’

 

‘A cadet indeed,’ said Terril. She inclined her head.

 

Morghan bowed, not quite as deeply as he did to Amiel.

 

‘My name is Morghan,’ he said carefully. ‘The Bridgemistress desired me to inform you that you need not report to her until you have taken some repast.’

 

‘I am Second Terril,’ said Terril. ‘This rag-bag is Second Limath.’

 

‘Rag-bag is rather extreme,’ said Limath. He clapped Morghan on the shoulder. It was a companionable touch, though the younger man had braced for a testing blow. ‘I fell off, if you must know. There was a storm, and bandits, and ...’

 

‘Perfect calm and an empty road, in truth,’ said Terril. ‘Limath just isn’t a very good rider.’

 

‘True, true,’ sighed Limath. ‘But perhaps the luck that has given us a new cadet will also allow me to walk to the bridge, and I need not ride till ... oh damn ...’

 

Morghan turned his head to see what had stopped the flow of Limath’s speech and instinctively braced as he saw Serjeant Ishring.

 

‘Need not ride until tomorrow morning, Second Limath, I think you were saying?’ asked Ishring. ‘To the seventh milepost and back, perhaps you were about to say?’

 

‘Indeed, Master Ishring,’ said Limath. Morghan was surprised to see him smile, as if perfectly happy at being caught out. ‘I daresay I could use the practice.’

 

‘I daresay,’ said Ishring. ‘I beg your pardon for my intrusion, Second Terril.’

 

He turned his attention to Morghan. ‘Cadet Morghan, the Bridgemistress has decided that now the Seconds have returned, she can spare you from tomorrow for additional arms drill. You will have the first hour after dawn and the first hour from the halt with me, for pole-axe and other work.’

 

‘Yes, Serjeant!’ bellowed Morghan.

 

Ishring nodded, and stalked off past the torch-poles, out into the darkness toward the nearest of the outer guard posts. Morghan had already been taken around the outer ring of sentries, learning where they all were so that he could, at least in theory, find them in the dark. In this careful preparation, as in so many other things the company did, the young cadet saw the very real expectation of trouble.

 

‘Show us our tent and the refectory wagon, then,’ said Limath. ‘I could eat a horse.’

 

‘You’d probably do that better than you ride them,’ said Terril.

 

‘Ah, I shall miss your wit when you are made Bridgemistress,’ said Limath. ‘Now, Morghan, is it? Was the watch list for the bridge made up before you joined?’

 

‘I don’t know, Second,’ said Morghan.

 

‘Ah, you would know, because you would have been writing out a dozen copies if it had,’ said Limath with great satisfaction. ‘Fortune smiles upon us, Terril.’

 

‘I suspect that rather you should say the Bridgemistress knows her business,’ said Terril drily.

 

Morghan was unable to stop a flicker of puzzlement wrinkling his brow, though he did suppress a question. Terril saw it pass across his face, like a swift cloud across the sun.

 

‘Tell Cadet Morghan why you are so pleased to see him ... or rather, any cadet ... and the associated matter of the watch list.’

 

‘Ah, it is simple!’ roared Limath, clapping Morghan on the back. ‘You know that the Bridgemistress must always be accompanied about by a Second or a cadet? We must buzz about her like bees around the queen of the hive, ready for anything, to sting or fly at her order. You follow?’

 

‘Yes ...’ said Morghan cautiously.

 

‘But unlike bees, who only work under the sun, the Bridgemistress moves by night as well as day. You see now?’

 

‘I’m not sure ...’

 

‘It is simple! You comprehend that the day and night is divided into four watches?’

 

Morghan nodded.

 

‘With only two Seconds, we must divide all four watches between us, to follow the Bridgemistress about and do her bidding. But there is also weapon work, and writing work for Famagus, and all manner of other works that must be done, and if we must serve the Bridgemistress watch-by-watch, it leads to a terrible lack of that wonderful thing that we know as sleep.’

 

‘Ah, I do see now,’ said Morghan. He paused for a moment, wondering if he should admit a weakness that might be used against him. ‘I admit that I am a little bit —’

 

‘Tired?’ interrupted Terril. ‘That is the lot of cadets, and even for such exalted beings as Seconds. But you will be more tired still by the time we reach the bridge. It is in many ways a test, Morghan.’

 

‘A test! But I have been tested ...’

 

Morghan’s voice faltered, and stopped for a moment, before he resumed.

 

‘I see. I shall not fail.’

 

‘That’s the way, young cadet!’ boomed Limath. ‘Let’s get this gear cleaned up, Terril, and then ... food!’

 

‘You’d best go back to the Bridgemistress,’ said Terril. ‘If I were you, I’d run. The Bridgemistress does not make much allowance for the chattering we have just done. We will not be far behind.’

 

‘Yes, Second!’ replied Morghan. He turned and raced back past the tents, jumping over guy ropes rather than taking the time to go around them.

 

‘Keen,’ remarked Terril.

 

‘Yes,’ said Limath. ‘I hope he makes it to the bridge. I confess that I do not fancy watch-and-watch for the whole winter.’

 

* * * *

 

Morghan did make it to the bridge, though he was battered and scratched from his daily practices with Serjeant Ishring and other guards, and weary beyond reckoning, for he had never walked so far for so long, and had so little sleep.

 

None of that mattered as he stood on the hill top, and looked along the road that wound down to the river valley. The Greenwash ran there, in slow curves, at its narrowest more than two thousand paces wide. But the river, for all its majesty, did not hold Morghan’s eye. He looked at the bridge, the greatest bridge he had ever seen. Nine vast arches sat on piers the size of houses, their flanks extended by cutwaters that divided the river’s flow into nine swift channels. Though the stone deck was not yet laid, it was clear that when finished the bridge would be wide enough for four carts to pass abreast.

 

The Mid-River Bastion, built on an all but submerged islet that underpinned the middle of the bridge, was complete, barring all passage along the temporary boardwalk or the side parapets. A square tower, eighty feet higher than the bridge deck, which was itself forty-five feet above the water, the bastion’s gates were shut, and guards walked along the battlements, the company’s banner flying high above them.

 

As Morghan watched, a horn sounded on this tower. It was answered a few moments later from the castle on the northern bank. Morghan switched his attention to that, noting that while a relatively small fortification of only four towers around a single bailey or courtyard, it was built on a rocky spur that rose from the river, and a small stream wound about it before rejoining the Greenwash. The castle was thus protected by swift water, and sat on the highest point for at least a league, till you reached either the southern hill where Morghan was, or the slowly sloping land to the north which led to the high steppe, somewhere beyond the far horizon.

 

Ahead of Morghan, the Bridgemistress raised her hand in the air, and a single bright Charter mark flew into the sky. It whistled as it sped, a single pure note that was louder and clearer than the horn-blasts of the two fortifications, loud enough to be heard for leagues. Morghan wondered what mark it was, for he did not know it, and wished he did.

 

‘Onward!’ ordered Amiel. ‘Let the Winter Shift take possession of our bridge!’

 

* * * *

 

Three months later, Morghan felt it was indeed his bridge, as much as anyone else’s in the company. He had walked and climbed every accessible inch of it, slipped on its icy stones, been bruised by it, and almost drowned shooting the rapids under its arches in a too-flimsy craft. He knew every nook and cranny of the North Fort, the Mid-River Bastion, and the work camp on the southern shore. He had learned and even understood Company Orders and could recite any part of it. He had grown a fingerwidth in height and a fraction broader in shoulders and arms, though he was still thin. He had come to know several hundred new Charter marks, and forty-six particular spells. Though his elbow held him back from reaching the standard Serjeant Ishring expected with a pole-axe, he had been graded as very good with a crossbow, and the Serjeant had once hinted that another year or two of constant practice might — just might — make Morghan a worthwhile addition to the company’s fighting strength.

 

It was more difficult to tell what the Bridgemistress thought about his value. She was not generous with praise, but did not criticise unduly either, not unless it was deserved. Morghan had made his small mistakes, and had taken his punishments without complaint, which were usually designed to ensure that he learned whatever he had got wrong the first time.

 

But he still worried that he might not be considered good enough, a fear that slowly grew as the winter waned and the first signs of spring began to show in sky and field. Eventually, he broke his habit of caution and on one of their last evenings spoke to Terril about it. They were on watch in the Mid-River Bastion, Terril commanding the small garrison, while Limath was off with the Bridgemistress, inspecting the southern ferry station which was a league to the west, far enough away to avoid the rapids created by the bridge. With the Field Market only a week away, the ferry was very busy, and there was a line of waiting wagons, trains of mules and even footsore pedlars that stretched from the ferry station to the bridge and then halfway up the southern side of the valley.

 

‘Second Terril, may I ask a question?’ Morghan said, as he stood at her side on the top of the tower.

 

‘You may, Cadet Morghan,’ said Terril. She was always formal and deliberate, unlike Limath, who treated Morghan as something of a cross between a pet dog and a little brother, with great enthusiasm and friendliness, but not a lot of thought.

 

‘I have been wondering,’ Morghan said carefully. ‘I have been wondering if cadets are often dismissed.’

 

Terril turned her complete attention to him.

 

‘Very rarely,’ she said. ‘Only in circumstances of incompetence, or gross turpitude. Selling our secrets, for example. Or weapons or something like that.’

 

‘What exactly might comprise incompetence?’ asked Morghan. He swallowed and thought of his elbow and Serjeant Ishring’s frowns at his pole-axe work.

 

Terril put her head on side and looked Morghan in the eye.

 

‘You have nothing to worry about, Cadet Morghan,’ she said firmly. ‘You have worked well, and I am sure that you will get a very good report.’

 

‘I will?’ asked Morghan.

 

‘Yes,’ said Terril firmly. ‘And if you keep on as you have, I expect that one day you will make an excellent Second, and in time, will be a redoubtable Bridgemaster yourself.’

 

Morghan nodded gratefully, unable to speak. He had not been able to think past their return to Navis. But to one day be a Bridgemistress’s Second, and then ... to reach the impossible peak of becoming a Bridgemaster!

 

‘Now go and get some sleep,’ instructed Terril. ‘I expect we’ll swap watches a little early, when the Bridgemistress comes back tonight, and you go with her, and Limath takes over here.’

 

‘But the dusk rounds, shouldn’t I go with you?’

 

‘Not tonight,’ said Terril. ‘I’ll go in a moment, and Farremon will keep watch here. I’ll wake you in good time for the Bridgemistress, have no fear of that. We won’t see her much this side of midnight.’

 

‘Thank you, Second,’ said Morghan gratefully. He bowed, and climbed down the stairs to the guardroom on the second floor, where everyone off-duty slept. The bastion was garrisoned by a dozen guards and an officer, and six of the beds were occupied by variously silent or snoring guards. Morghan found his own, wearily shrugged off his hauberk and hung it and his weapons on their stands, and sat on the bed. He thought about taking off his gambeson and boots, but before he could decide one way or another, he fell sideways and was instantly asleep.

 

Morghan awoke from the grip of a terrible, frightening dream to find himself in total darkness, and immediately felt waking panic too. There should have been a lantern lit, as per standing orders, and the Bridgemistress might be there at any moment. He leapt up and felt for his armour and weapons, dressing and equipping himself with practised speed, despite the absence of light.

 

It was only when he fastened his belt that he fully woke up and realized something was wrong, much more wrong than one unlit lantern.

 

He couldn’t hear any snoring, or even the soft breath of his companions, and there had never been, nor could there be, a guardroom so quiet.

 

They’ve been called to arms was Morghan’s immediate thought, and panic choked him. I’ve slept through an alarm! I’ll be dismissed after all!

 

He caught a sob in his throat, choked on it, and coughed, the sound harsh and loud in the silence. With the intake of breath after the cough came a sour, nasty taste, as if the air itself was tainted with something like the hot, metallic air of a forge ...

 

‘Free Magic,’ whispered Morghan, and a different fear rose in him and washed away all other fears. Instinctively he reached for the Charter, and found that it was already there, that he must have reached for it in his sleep. A faint, almost extinguished mark glowed feebly just below his heart, and it was joined to other marks that ran in a chain around his chest. Morghan touched them one by one, and remembered a spell that he had forgotten that he knew, a spell his grandmother had taught him when he was too young to know what she guarded him against. But somewhere deep inside, the child within had remembered in the time of need.

 

Morghan called the marks again, and rebound them to himself, winding them around like the armour they were. Armour against spells of ill-wishing, that if strong enough might still a beating heart, or close mouth and nose against the life-giving air.

 

With the new marks came light, but not enough. Morghan reached into the Charter again and found the one he sought. He drew it in the air, and it hung above his head, a companion brighter than the best of candles. In its light, Morghan surveyed the room.

 

Wisps of fog, thick and unnatural, oozed in through the shuttered arrow-slits and clustered around the beds. One quick glance across the silent, still figures and the winding fog was enough for Morghan to know that all his sleeping companions were dead, even the three who also had the Charter Mark.

 

Morghan picked up his pole-axe and ran down the steps.

 

The five guards below were also dead, but though their chests were still, they were moving. Four of them were clumsily unbarring one of the northern gates, while the fifth kept walking into the wall, bouncing off it and walking into it again. The reek of hot metal was stronger than ever, and the fog flowing in under the gates was as thick as wool.

 

Morghan did not immediately recognise the guards were no longer alive.

 

‘Stop! Stand!’ he shouted. But they did not stop, or stand still, or even turn. They had one end of the bar lifted out of its bracket, and he realised they would have it off entirely in a minute.

 

Morghan shouted again, then dashed forward and struck the closest man across the back of the legs with the shaft of his pole-axe. Bone cracked, but the man did not turn. Still he lifted the beam, and Morghan belatedly saw what he was dealing with.

 

The pole-axe swung, and a head rolled on the floor. The decapitated body kept at its work for a few seconds, then lost coordination and began to flail angrily at the gate.

 

Sobbing, Morghan swiftly beheaded the other guards, and beat the headless bodies back from the gate. The Dead tried to keep opening the door, but without heads they could not see, so they crashed into each other and fell over, and felt about blindly and worked at cross-purposes.

 

For a moment Morghan thought he was done with them and could take a moment to think. But then he heard something from outside, something that at first gave him heart, for it was the pure, sweet sound of a bell, before the sound was overlaid with something else, something he felt rather than heard, that made his stomach cramp, and bile come flooding into his mouth.

 

The dead guards, headless as they were, answered the bell as if a guiding intelligence had occupied them all. They came at him together, hands grasping, trying to bring him down, and he swung and bashed and cut and kicked at them with everything he’d learned from Serjeant Ishring and in the alleys behind the inn, but it was not enough and at last he had to jump back to the stairs.

 

He was only just able to slam shut the heavy door as the Dead charged against it. One dead guard’s hand was caught in the doorway, and severed. It scuttled at him as he swung down the bar, and he had to stomp it to pieces before it lay still.

 

Morghan stood for a moment, trying to regain his breath. He could hear the Dead going back down to unbar the gate. There had to be a necromancer there, maybe more than one, or several Free Magic sorcerers. There might be an army of the Dead ...

 

Morghan stopped that thought. There would not be an army of the Dead. They could not cross fast running water. In fact, it was only because the bastion was built on a rocky island that the Dead below could survive. The necromancer outside could only use those people in the bastion that had already been slain with Free Magic to raise the Dead —

 

Like the sleeping guards upstairs.

 

The thought had barely formed in Morghan’s mind before he was running again, jumping up the steps four at a time in a desperate race to get above the guardroom and bar the next door. If he could make it past, then there would only be the sentry above ... and Terril.

 

Maybe Terril’s alive thought Morghan. Please, please, let Terril be alive!

 

Kworquorakan stepped into his path, eyes still half-shut as if he merely slept, but his skin was pallid and blue around the mouth and eyes. He held a sword in a weak and clumsy grip, for the Dead spirit within him was not his own, and was too new to the body.

 

Morghan swept the sword to the floor and hammered the Dead guard to one side, rushing past before it could get up. He caught a glimpse through the open guardroom door, of the other Dead shambling from their beds, arming themselves slowly and stupidly.

 

Morghan shut the next door, and barred it twice. This door was almost as heavy as the lower gate, but he had no illusions about how long wood and iron alone could hold against the Dead and Free Magic. Despite his lack of breath and the wave of shock and weariness that threatened to overwhelm him, he calmed himself and found the Charter. For a moment he almost lost himself in the welcoming sea of marks, before training and desperation asserted control. He found the symbols he needed, cupped them in his hands, and pressed them against the door while he whispered their use-names.

 

Warm, soft light spilled out between his fingers and ran through the tight grain of the wood, swirling round and round as it sank deeper, strengthening and binding. Rivulets of gold ran from wood to stone, like tree roots seeking water deep underground. The iron hinges spewed rusty flakes as they took on a deep, yellow glow that was sunlight and gold and a comforting, well-banked fire.

 

Morghan turned away from the door and fell over, momentarily too weak to support himself. He jarred his bad elbow on the stone, but the pain helped, the old familiar sensation cutting through his exhaustion. He got up and picked up his pole-axe, only to see that the axe was notched and there was a crack in the shaft. His fight against the Dead below had been desperate indeed.

 

Morghan left the pole-axe where it lay and stumbled to the rack of crossbows on the wall. He took down his own, and the cranequin and quarrel, and quickly wound back the string and loaded a shaft. Then he thrust four more quarrels through his belt, and slowly began to climb the stairs.

 

He tried to be as quiet as he could, but within five steps this became unnecessary, as the Dead below attacked the door he had spelled shut. He heard the deep boom of heavy timber against timber and assumed that they had made a battering ram from one or more of the beds. Beds which should be made less sturdy so as not to be used against us, Morghan thought. Something to be noted for the Bridgemistress, and if she approved, a memorandum sent to Famagus for the other shifts.

 

Morghan slowed near the top. The battlements were reached by a ladder through a hatch, and this was open when it should not be. Tendrils of fog came spiralling down through the hatch, as if some hideous, tentacled sea creature of mist and dark vapour was squatting on the tower.

 

His crossbow held ready, Morghan moved underneath and looked up. But he couldn’t see anything but the fog, and he couldn’t hear anything, either, apart from the repeated crack and boom of the ram below.

 

Morghan started to climb the ladder with the crossbow at the ready, and found that he could not. He could not pull himself up or balance with his left arm. It would not support him, the elbow locking up or giving way, all flexibility lost. Morghan cursed under his breath and put the crossbow down to take up one of his thin daggers in his left hand. He could barely manage even that slight weight, but at least he could climb with his right hand.

 

But I won’t be much use in a fight, Morghan thought. When I stick my head up through that hatch, there’ll be ... there’ll likely be two Dead on me right away ... I can’t win ... I can’t do any good ... but I have to try ... whoever is attacking us, they mustn’t cross the bridge ... they will not cross the bridge ...my bridge ...’

 

Morghan took a breath, and began to climb. Slowly at first, then as he neared the top, it became a sudden, scrabbling rush and he burst out onto the battlements like a startled pheasant from the heath, sending the fog swirling in all directions.

 

Two bodies lay near the hatch. The guard Farremon was dead, pale and blue. But Terril’s chest rose and fell slowly. Morghan put his dagger down, ready to hand, and quickly pushed Farremon’s body through the open hatch, slamming it shut afterwards and locking the bar. Then he turned to Terril. Her eyes were half-open, but she looked drugged and insensible. Her hand was on her breast, and there were three faint Charter marks drawn there, pulsing in time with a very slow heartbeat.

 

‘Terril!’ said Morghan. ‘Terril!’

 

There was no answer. The death magic that had come with the fog had not claimed Terril, but it had left her fighting for her life. Perhaps the spell was weaker, higher up, Morghan thought. Not that it mattered.

 

He reclaimed his dagger, drew his sword, and went to the northern battlements to look over the side. All he could see was thick, white fog, completely cloaking the bastion, hiding it from the Northern Fort and the southern shore. He couldn’t even see directly below, though he could hear the clank and jangle of armour and weapons on the boardwalk, in between the booms of the ram on the lower door. There were a lot of enemy out there, scores of them, if not more.

 

But the continued booming was oddly reassuring. It meant that the door, or more likely at this point, the spell alone, still held. When he didn’t hear it, but heard instead the clatter of feet on the stair, that would be ... well ... the end.

 

I’m not thinking straight. I need to warn the fort, and the ferry ... and all the waiting merchants ...

 

Morghan’s head hurt, almost as much as his elbow, and he now knew that it was possible to feel even more exhausted than was the usual lot of a cadet on the bridge. It took a supreme effort to prise himself from the embrasure and walk over to the great horn that hung between two iron posts.

 

He leaned forward to set his lips to the horn, ready to blow the alert, when he saw that it was split at the mouth, riven in two. At the same time, he tasted hot metal that blistered his tongue. The horn had been split by magic, and that was no mean feat, unseen from below.

 

Or was it done unseen? Morghan thought. Is there someone else up here, in the fog?

 

Morghan stepped back and almost fell over before he managed to spread his feet and steady himself. Despite his pain and weariness he was thinking faster now, aware that he might have very little time.

 

One of the several hundred new Charter marks he had learned over the winter was the one that was the scream of the saffron-tailed kite, only the Bridgemistress wound into it another mark, one of magnification, that made the scream louder, more than a hundred times louder.

 

But they were difficult marks, not old familiar ones that he knew well. He might well meet the death of his grandmother, seeking to find and wield such marks when he was already so weary.

 

So be it, thought Morghan. Better to die here than in an alley in Belisaere. I have had my winter, and it is enough.

 

He knelt down, and rested his hands on the hilt of his sword, setting the point deep in a crack between the flagstones. Then he went into the Charter once more, knowing it was one time too many, that his weary body could not bear to harness the power he sought. Not and live to speak of it.

 

The first mark, the cry of the bird, he found easily, and he let it slide from his hands into the sword. The second was more difficult, and his vision swam and his breath grew ever more ragged before at last he pushed through a swarm of too-bright marks and caught the one he sought, and sent it into the blade too.

 

With the spell ready, and his strength fading fast, Morghan left the flow of the Charter and brought himself back to the foggy battlements. Slowly, ever so slowly, he rose to his feet and prepared to lift his sword, to send his signal flying to the night sky above the fog.

 

But the blade was stuck. Morghan pulled at it, and almost had it free when he saw that he was no longer alone. Someone ... or something ... was slipping over the battlements. It stopped to fix its gaze upon him, and then came stalking towards him.

 

Morghan knew what it was at once, for it was part of his lessons. It was why the company’s guards carried pole-axes, to fight such a thing of stone, impervious to lighter weapons. Carved from solid rock to match the fetish of one of the tribes of the far steppe and infused with a Free Magic spirit to make it live and move; this was a Spirit-Walker.

 

It moved towards him, not lumbering as one might expect a statue to do, but more like a stalking insect, all sharp starts and flurries. It was man-like in the sense that it had two legs and two arms, but the legs were long, and the arms jointed backwards and ended in wedges of sharpened stone.

One cruel wedge shot forward. Morghan twisted aside, too slowly, and his hauberk was sliced open as if it were no more than thin cloth, and he felt the sudden pain of a deep wound. At the same time, he wrenched his sword free and thrust it forward in riposte, though he knew no mere blade could harm a spirit-walker.

 

The riposte missed, but drawing back, the very tip of the sword touched the Spirit-Walker on its backward-jointed elbow.

 

Morghan felt the connection to his very bones. He felt the ancient, malevolent spirit inside, striving to do as it was bid and slay him, and he felt the stone that it inhabited, and at once knew every fissure, every faint crack and weakness.

 

‘Go,’ whispered Morghan to his spell, and he fell backwards, all strength gone.

 

The marks left the blade, and not hundreds but thousands of saffron-tailed kites screamed their hunting scream inside the Spirit-Walker’s stony flesh, the sound resonating and echoing along every crack, growing and expanding, fighting to get out.

 

The Spirit-Walker took one further step, then exploded into powder as the distress call of the bastion echoed through the river valley, to the North Fort, and the ferry stations, and up the road and beyond the hills, to Navis and even to the very walls of Belisaere.

 

The great scream blew away the fog, and under sudden moon and starlight, a necromancer cursed and hurried back along the boardwalk. His Dead bashed once more at the door, then fell, the spirits too weak to sustain themselves in Life without their master. Hundreds of nomad tribesmen, spread out along the bridge, heard what they thought was the death-cry of their Spirit-Walker. They saw their necromancer flee and turned to run with him. The great raid upon the southern lands, so long in the making, had failed before it had really begun.

 

At the Ferry Station, Amiel cast a spell that sent a night-bird of dull Charter marks flying faster than any bird to the Glacier of the Clayr, and then another, like as a twin, winged south to Navis. But even as the magical birds left her hand, she was running for her horse, and shouting orders, with Limath at her heels, spitting out the over-large mouthful of cake he had just wedged in his mouth.

 

Atop the bastion, Morghan looked at the stars, now so clear in the sky. They looked welcoming to him, something he had not thought about before. If he’d had the strength, he would have raised a hand to them, but he’d could not. Besides, he could feel the river calling to him, could hear the roar of the Greenwash — or perhaps it was some other river, for it did not sound entirely the same ...

 

‘You are not allowed to die, cadet,’ said a voice near at hand.

 

Morghan slowly moved one eye to see who was speaking to him.

 

It was Terril, who was crawling over to him. Her hand moved across his face and climbed to his forehead, and two fingers touched the Charter Mark there. He felt some small spark of power flow from her, a faint thread that nevertheless was strong enough to arrest the pull of the unseen river and lessen the attraction of the distant stars.

 

‘I said you are not allowed to die, Cadet Morghan! Do you understand?’

 

‘Yes, Second,’ whispered Morghan. He did understand, and in that moment, he knew that he would not die. Terril held him back, and Terril was the company, and the company was the bridge, and he was part of it, and always would be, and one day he would be a Second and a Bridgemaster too, for he had not failed the test.

 

He had held the bridge.

 

* * * *

 

Afterword

 

I often find it difficult to remember the genesis of a story, or sometimes there just isn’t any identifiable spark or catalyst that sets everything in motion. Also, often the basic idea doesn’t end up being related to the eventual story at all, it is like a booster rocket that falls away, while the story speeds on without it.

 

However, in the case of ‘To Hold the Bridge’ I can pin down the source of inspiration, and the basic idea ended up being very much part of the narrative. As with many of my ideas, the spark came from history. I was reading a most excellent book called Power and Profit: The Merchant in Medieval Europe by Peter Spufford (Thames & Hudson, 2002) and was particularly fascinated by a chapter called ‘Helps and hindrances to trade’ which focuses on bridges, roads, rivers and all the means by which medieval goods got to market.

 

From that book, and from real history, I got the idea of a long-lived company involved in constructing an important bridge, and in turn I set that in the established realm of my Old Kingdom novels. All I had to do then was to find a story to tell against that backdrop, and as I often do, I began with a character who would discover the world of the Bridge Company with me, and then with the reader.

 

— Garth Nix

 

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